Prelude to a Prologue
by alwaysflying
Summary: At nine years old, Mark doesn't expect much when he hears that he'll be meeting a fake cousin for the first time.


---

Mark sighs, perusing the endless bookshelves of his aunt's aged cottage. As he walks up and down the rows of books, he brushes his hand along the walls, enjoying the rough textures of the different volumes.

Idly, Mark wonders if he should leave this amazing miniature library and seek out the company of that cousin of his who is supposed to be arriving today. He remembers his mother telling him about her, this strange little girl who isn't quite related to Mark – her mother is the best friend of Mark's mother's sister. Apparently, the girl's father just left her and her mother, and has been welcomed in by a new family – Mark's.

For the life of him, Mark can't remember her name.

Resignedly, he pulls three books from a shelf and lays them on a table to mark his territory, then swings his bag over his shoulder. _She had better like books_, he thinks to himself, because if this kid turns out to be one of those girls who only cares about fashion and stuff, he doesn't know if he'll be able to tolerate her. Nervously, he begins his ascent of the stairs from the library in the basement to the main part of the house.

"Mark!" someone squeals, probably Cindy. Sure enough, there she is, a wine glass in her hand, her head thrown back, giggling. Mark has always known that Aunt Tamara is a little more relaxed and liberal than his parents, but letting Cindy _drink_, even on Thanksgiving,seems a little much. Then again, if _he _were offered wine, Mark doubts he would be complaining.

"Mark, hi, honey," calls his mother from across the room. She, too, has evidently had a bit to drink; she is lying on the couch, her head on Mark's father's lap. Mark rolls his eyes, but perches on the end of the couch nonetheless.

He smiles at Aunt Tamara. "How are you holding up?"

She grins toothily. "Better than your clan," she shoots back. "Want a sip?" She holds up a glass containing a slightly darker liquid than Cindy's – obviously, Mark is pleased to note, Cindy's wine has been watered down.

Mark crosses the room and takes the glass from her hands. "You have to ask, Tam?" he teases.

Tamara laughs, but before she can answer, there is a rapp at the door. "Oh! That's Leah!"

Mark turns wearily to look at his mother. "Are you in an appropriate condition to see your sister for the first time in two years?" he asks her, a smile on the edges of his mouth.

Huffing, Mark's mother gets to her feet and crosses to the door. "Yes, Mark, I _am_," she replies, "and remember that I'm your mother, please." With a little chuckle at that, Aunt Tamara opens the door.

Mark, Cindy and their father exchange tired glances as Mark's aunt Leah enters. Though Mark has never met her before, he has seen her in family pictures – a lanky, blond little girl; a lanky, blond teenager with horrific acne; a young woman with dyed red hair alongside another scarlet-haired woman. From what Mark has heard from his parents, Leah was never particularly independent; in her youth, she relied on her older sisters to stand up for her. Once in college, Leah began to write home to her parents and siblings. Mark, who has read the letters, can vouch for his father when he says that it took Leah a _day and a half _to find another person to depend on and call her "sister."

"Mark, Cindy," says Mark's mother, stepping into the living room with her red-haired sister, "this is your aunt, Leah. Come say hello."

Dryly, emotionlessly, Mark and Cindy chorus, "Hi."

"Hi, kids," says Aunt Leah in a rushed, clipped voice. Mark shudders. Not very friendly, then.

Mark's father peers up at her from his spot on the couch. "Hello, Leah," he recites tonelessly.

Aunt Leah nods. "Michael."

Again, the front door opens, and this time Aunt Tamara steps inside with several suitcases in her hands, two adults immediately behind her. Gritting her teeth, she lays the luggage on the floor and forces a smile. "Hi, guys," she says brightly. "Mark and Cindy, these two are your aunt's friends, Eddie and Nancy Johnson."

"She's my _sister_," Aunt Leah interjects. "Nancy's my _sister_."

Mark and Cindy roll their eyes at each other.

From behind the two people in the doorway, Mark hears an indistinct muttering. "What's that?" he murmurs to Aunt Tamara.

"Oh!" Aunt Tamara exclaims, and steps behind Eddie and Nancy for a moment. When she reappears, there is a small girl at her elbow. "This is Maureen, guys. She's Eddie and Nancy's daughter."

"Hi," says Cindy, still in a dull tone.

Mark smiles, figuring that if this is the kid he's going to have to socialize with, he may as well start out on good terms with her. "Hi," he says. "I'm Mark."

"Hi!" squeals the little girl, who has pigtails and a shirt on that is a size too small. Her socks are mismatched, one yellow and one purple, with the former one pulled up while the latter is slipping into her shoe. Both of her front teeth are missing, along with several others on the bottom row. Clenched in her chubby fist is a fat green crayon, its point dull and its wrapper already torn off. "I'm Maureen," she says, repeating what Aunt Tamara said. "I'm eight."

"Nine," says Mark. "I mean, I am. Nine." He grins. "That's my sister Cindy," he says, pointing. "She's fourteen and cranky."

"Hey!"

Mark and Maureen look at her with equal amounts of dislike. After a momentary pause, a lapse of conversation, Mark jumps. Maureen looks at him, and Mark exclaims, "Let's go play downstairs! That's where my room is," he adds, and with that, sets off for the basement door at a run. He isn't naturally an active boy, but he is certainly energetic in the presence of this girl, whose mischievous smile and careless choice in clothing seem to betray that she can become _very _excitable at times.

When the two reach the basement, their hands thrown out in front of them to prevent them from falling over, Mark and Maureen stop, panting, and look around. "It's a library," Mark comments unnecessarily.

"Really?" asks Maureen without a trace of sarcasm. At eight and nine, many children have not yet mastered the concept of sarcasm, and even if they have been taught that skill already, they may not be particularly adept at using it.

Mark sighs. "The books are really good, but Mom says they're too mature for me," he complains.

Maureen giggles. "What's the point of books if you can _play_?" she demands, and leaps to her feet. "Look! These bookshelves aren't shelves, they're _monkey bars_!" With that, she springs upward and grabs a shelf at random and swings herself onto it. Mark watches her, awe-struck.

"Come on, try it," Maureen begs. "It's _fun_."

Mark is hesitant.

"Please?" she asks, jutting out her lower lip in an adorable pout.

Mark does not utter a word in response, but with one hand, grabs the bookshelf upon which Maureen is seated, and with the other, takes her hand. Kicking off from a shelf lower to the ground, Mark hoists himself up, landing contentedly beside Maureen. "That was fun," he admits.

"Of course it was," she scoffs. "I suggested it, didn't I?" With that, she crouches down on the shelf and springs off of it, landing in a squat on the ground. Mark's eyes widen.

"How did you _do _that?" he demands.

She laughs. "You try."

"No way! I'd kill myself!" he exclaims.

Still laughing, Maureen insists, "No, you won't. You'll land right next to me on the ground, and everything would be perfectly fine. _Marvelous_, even," she adds, using what is evidently a new word for her.

"_Right_," Mark drawls. "No, thank you. I'll just climb d – "

"Boo!" Maureen shrieks.

Startled, Mark nearly falls off of the bookshelf. As he rights himself, he glares at Maureen. "That was nasty."

"Funny," she corrects him.

Mark rolls his eyes. "Okay, I'm coming down," he says, and slowly begins to do just that when, all of a sudden, there is a jerk on his ankle. As he cries out in aggravation, he lands, with a thump, on the floor beside Maureen.

"You _suck_," he tells her vindictively. "That _hurt_."

She squeals in delight. "It _did_?"

Mark glares at her. "You're mean."

"Is that the best you can do?" she smirks. "You're _nine_. Surely you have something better than _that_."

"My mom says I can't say anything worse than that," Mark informs her petulantly.

Maureen giggles. "What's the point of listening to _her_? It's your life, isn't it?" she points out, poking Mark in the chest. "Let her worry about her own stuff."

Mark wrinkles his nose. "I don't know. She knows better than I do…"

"You are _such _a pushover," Maureen laughs, and springs to her feet and leaps across the room, skipping happily, brushing books off the shelves.

"Don't! Mark exclaims, but Maureen ignores him, continuing to run and destruct.

Desperately, Mark offers loudly, "I'll play a game with you if you _stop_!"

Maureen comes to a quick stop. "What?" she asks attentively.

"I'll play a game with you if you stop wrecking everything," he repeats. "'Cause, you know, if you keep doing that, it's gonna make Tamara angry."

Giggling, Maureen teases, "Tam-anger."

"_No_," Mark insists, kicking the ground. "Let's play a game."

"Now who wants to play?" Maureen taunts. Seeing the pained expression on Mark's face, she relents. "Okay, okay. What do you want to play?" Before Mark can answer, however, she breaks into a smile. "Let's play _make-believe_!"

Mark smiles. He's never had anyone to play with before, but he can't help admitting that this is something he's always wanted to try. "Okay," he says. "Okay. What do you want to make-believe? What if I was a prince, and you were a princess, and – "

"Boring," Maureen shoots him down. "Princes and princesses are stupid. Let's do something different."

Mark's jaw drops. He has never met any girl who didn't love princesses. Immediately, he is filled with admiration for Maureen and her rebellious nature, but doesn't say as much. What he _does _say is: "Can I be a ninja?"

"Sure," she says, shrugging. "I'll be the bad guy." And before Mark can so much as start the game, she pastes on that mischievous smile and plants a kick on Mark's shin. His eyes widen, but he is practically used to this from Maureen by now, and he leaps into the air, intending to retaliate.

Within minutes, Mark and Maureen are completely engrossed in their ninja games. When books fall onto the ground, they avoid them like active volcanoes; when they can hear the adults upstairs, Maureen gasps out a "What was that?" and doubles behind her to check that she isn't being "followed."

Surprisingly, there is more acting involved than there is actual violence. Sure, Maureen and Mark each get in a few good kicks and punches, but no more than in any other game, one that doesn't involve ninjas or mandated violence of any kind.

When Mark and Maureen collapse on the ground, lying up at the ceiling, Mark insists, "I won."

"I won," says Maureen.

Mark shrugs. "I won," he says, in the tone in which one might say, _Okay, you won_.

Maureen laughs. "I won."

The subject is dropped, both children acting as though they have come to an agreement of some kind.

After less than two minutes of relaxing, Mark slowly gets to his feet. "You want to see my room?" he offers. At Maureen's nod, he helps her to her feet (in a bizarre act of chivalry that astounds even him) and leads her through the door that leads to his bedroom.

Immediately, Maureen lets out a content sigh. "You are so _lucky_," she whines. "I want a room like this."

Mark blushes. "It's only for three nights," he mumbles.

"Still," she says, and pleads, "Can I move in with you? I'll bring in a bed from upstairs."

Mark shrugs. "Sure. Can I help?"

Maureen surveys Mark in surprise. "Like I'd let you get away with _not _helping," she drawls. "C'mon. Let's go get a bed."

---

About halfway through their descent of the stairs leading from the "bedrooms" floor to the main floor, Maureen feels it is necesssary to remark, "Your bed downstairs is pretty big, you know."

"Yeah…" Mark trails off. "And?"

"And this bed is really heavy," Maureen elaborates. "Like, really heavy."

Indeed it is. Maureen is facing front, hoisting the back end of the bed; Mark, meanwhile, is walking backwards, holding the headboard.

"You're telling me," grunts Mark. "What's your point?"

"Well," says Maureen, weighing her words carefully. "What if I shared your bed?"

"Like Mom and Dad?" asks Mark bluntly.

Maureen raises her eyebrows. "I can see the difference, Mark, and I'm eight. Grow up."

He sighs. "You want to share my bed?"

"The alternative is carrying this thing down another flight and a half of stairs," she reminds him.

Mark lets the legs of the bed drop down to the surface of the stairs, abandoning the task altogether. "You want to watch a movie?" he asks brightly.

"Definitely."

---

At dinnertime, the nine individuals are seated at Aunt Tamara's round dining room table. "Okay," she says cheerfully, once everyone has a mountain of some food or another on his or her plate. "You know what it's time for, everyone."

"Oh," groans Cindy. "Do we _have _to?" she asks, propping her chin up on her palm.

"I'm not dignifying that with a response," Aunt Tamara replies brightly. "Okay." She whirls on her older sister, sitting right beside her. "Dana! What are _you _thankful for?"

Mark's mother smiles, and whether or not it is genuine is debatable. "Well, Tam," she says cheerfully (too cheerfully), "I'd have to say I'm most thankful for my family."

"Of course you are," chuckles Aunt Tamara.

"Aren't _you_?"

"It's not my turn," Aunt Tamara says diplomatically.

Everyone turns to face Mark's father, seated beside his wife, as he abruptly interjects, "_My _turn, ladies." Mark and Maureen snicker appreciatively as he continues, because the arguing of Mark's mother and Aunt Tamara is always a tedious encounter. Mark's father continues, "I'm thankful for the job I'll be returning to on Monday."

"Never too soon, is it?" Eddie murmurs, obviously feeling the same way.

His wife slaps his arm. "_Eddie_!"

The rhythm of the swiftly-moving rotation around the circle (one person shares his or her "thankful-fors," and just as controversy begins, the next person cuts in) picks up easily. Cindy states that she is thankful for her friends, Mark for Maureen and Maureen for Mark. Eddie is thankful for his job (said as he glances sympathetically at Mark's father), and Nancy for her recent promotion.

Finally, only Aunt Leah remains. Mark glances at his father, trying to silently communicate the trepidation he feels for this upcoming statement. Sure enough, Aunt Leah utters the most bizarre "thankful-for" that Mark has ever heard: "I'm thankful for my warm, welcoming new family."

Mark and Maureen burst out into hysterical laughter. This goes on for so long that their faces start turning red, and Cindy loudly proposes, "Maybe I should splash them with wine?"

"Wine is valuable in this house," Aunt Tamara states mock-seriously. "If you're going to splash them, use water. And I really advise that, actually."

Catching the hint, Mark and Maureen struggle to contain themselves. Biting their lips fiercely, they do their best not to look at each other, well aware of the hysteria that would form from that one glance. They look directly across the table, their eyes unnaturally focused on the wall so that nothing could prompt them to start laughing again.

Once the room is silent again, Aunt Tamara's eyes flash in either irritation or, more likely, amusement. "Back to dinner, then," she says cheerfully.

---

In their respective pairs of flannel pajamas, Mark and Maureen are ready for bed. The only problem, however, is that from their shared basement, they are unable to see outside. This is distressing particularly to Maureen – "I can't sleep without watching the stars first," she whines.

Mark, ever the savior, decides that something must be done about this problem. "Want to look out another window?" he suggests.

"Um… sure," says Maureen, and her eyes suddenly light up. "Remember that room you told me about? The one Cindy insisted on sleeping in so that the sun could wake her up, or something?"

Mark nods. "Yeah, the attic bedroom. What about it?"

With her signature grin foretelling mischief, Maureen whispers, "I bet it has a skylight."

---

Silently, trying to be as quiet as the ninjas they so admire, Mark and Maureen creep into the low-ceiling-ed attic bedroom which Cindy has claimed for herself. So low are the ceilings, in fact, that Maureen, lying on her back on the floor, is content with her view of the stars.

Mark, however, is less than satisfied.

"Look," he says, pointing upward at a different corner of the room. This one, while closer to Cindy's bed, features a larger skylight. However, the skylight is blocked by a panel of wood running from one end of the ceiling to the other. Maureen nudges Mark and points this out, but Mark shakes his head.

Expertly, he steps onto Cindy's bed, on his tiptoes, and reaches up for the panel. Relishing the shocked expression that must be on Maureen's face behind him, he lifts himself upwards. After maybe twenty seconds, Mark has comfortably arranged himself on the panel, lying on his back, gazing out the skylight. "Maureen!" he hisses. "It's _perfect_."

Maureen rolls her eyes. "Like I could ever get up there," she sighs.

Mark rolls onto his stomach and extends an arm to Maureen. Swiftly, she reaches up for his hand, but can't quite reach. "Stand on the bed," he instructs.

"I'll wake her up," Maureen whispers.

Mark shakes his head. "I didn't, did I?" he points out. "C'mon."

Reluctantly, Maureen steps onto the bed and reaches up for Mark's hand again. This time, their hands touch, and Mark manages to hoist Maureen ever-so-slightly off the surface of the bed. Dangling in mid-air, Maureen squirms, and it takes all of Mark's upper body strength to pull her up just enough for her to swing up the rest of the way herself.

"Wow," she breathes, crawling across the panel until she is far enough away from Mark to lie down. Again, she repeats, "Wow," this time in her normal speaking voice.

Abruptly, Cindy sits up. Mark and Maureen's heartbeats increase exponentially, but they remain perfectly silent, their arms and legs pulled closely together so that they are invisible from someone standing below them.

"Who's there?" Cindy asks loudly. "I heard whispering. _Who's there_?"

Still, there is silence.

Swiftly, Cindy climbs off of her bed and exits the room, presumably to go get her parents.

"Aw," Mark groans. "I guess we have to leave now?"

Maureen sighs. "I guess."

"On second thought…"

"What?" she asks, craning her neck over to meet Mark's eyes.

He grins. "We could… stay. They won't see us, right?"

"Right," Maureen says quickly. "Let's stay."

And so they do.

In fact, they spend the night.


End file.
